"... Reynold Barca, the former Secretary of the Commonwealth, died in a fire at home around seven p.m. yesterday, allegedly with his daughter, Mira de Armas, whom he adopted from his lifelong friend, archeology professor Alec de Armas."

The news blasted on a screen TV from a wall opposing the row of plastic chairs where Mira sat. 

"Professor de Armas initially rose to fame for his discovery of the prehistoric record of Alexander the Great. He and his wife both died in a car crash ten years ago, leaving behind their only daughter, Mira de Armas, who at the age of twenty-one, was known as Barca's prodigy. Her debut novel, Gods' Gaze, was published by the once-renowned Huron Press, despite lingering suspicions of plagiarism. Although the police have yet to find her remains, it is…"

Mira clenched her jaw, her head bowed, her eyes glaring at her hands wringing upon her lap. 

"Evan Ginsberg?" 

She lifted her eyes at a voluptuous woman calling her name. "Yes."

"Follow me, please."

She obliged. 

In an office with a window overseeing the dock, a sturdy man with a thinning pate greeted her with a snide grin. 

"Sit," he said, flapping his wrist at a chair opposing him. 

"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Gray." 

Gray cocked a brow. "You know my name? Already?" His hooded eyes flicked between Mira and the resume on his desk. 

Mira lowered her head. Tilting her lips was a smile that never reached her eyes. "Mr. Harvey Gray," she replied, her voice unhurried. "Not only your name, I know you'll give me the job aboard your next cargo ship leaving for the Republic." 

Gray tilted back his balding head and guffawed, revealing his large teeth, pearl white and expensive. "Just because you know my name I should give you a job? Did you get hit in the head as a child?"

"I got hit with an idea as a child." Mira slumped in the chair, her hands steepling. "See, a few years back, a man came to you with a request to transport some artifacts. What was his name?" she paused, feigning to remember. "Aw, de Armas, Professor Alec de Armas."

Panic flashed in Gray's hooded eyes. 

"You got paid, of course," Mira continued, carrying the same half smile that numbed her face. "But you never delivered. After Alec de Armas died in the car crash, you misappropriated his collection. Knowing that they're of great value, you stashed them away. But what an untoward happenstance, as the Revolution took place soon after. Everything of the past, every concept on which the world is built must be brought down, every tradition overthrown, and their memory erased. You can't sell the stash anymore." Smacking her lips, she chuckled. Her eyes bored into his. 

"You're a clever man, Mr. Gray, and you know how to trim your sails to the wind, quite literally, so to speak. Since the rise of the Utopianists, Sealion Cargo has been a staunch supporter, advocating for their cause. Now, what would the Reds do should they find out that all this time, you've kept hold of something you've sworn to destroy?"

Across the desk, Gray smirked, his face strained. Leaning back in the reclining leather chair, he put his feet up on the desk. "Don't bluff with me, boy," he snorted. "I've seen more fights than you've had meals." 

"But I'm not bluffing." Mira held his gaze, her brows quirking. Shortly after the accident, Reynold had his men trace her dad's collection. But other than reporting it to the police, he didn't breathe a word. A man's secret is another's leverage, if you play it right – as he often used to say. Compelling herself to the present, she went forth, "I know you have it stashed away in a cave on the Ferrini Archipelago now surrounded by the Reds. What should have made you a fortune is now a ticking bomb. You wouldn't like me to detonate it, would you? And let's cut to the chase, the Reds want me. If I get caught, I'll trade the tidings for some leniency. And if I die, say, of another untoward happenstance, an automatic message will be sent at nine in the morning every day if don't turn it off. Now, do I have the job?" 

Across the desk, Gray put down his feet. He leaned forth, his lips compressed, his hooded eyes a glint. The stamp thudded on a blank application. "Fill it in and hand it to Rose. You're leaving tomorrow."